


Honey and Straw

by laliquey



Category: True Detective
Genre: Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Marijuana, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 09:44:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2617325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laliquey/pseuds/laliquey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set around Ep4 when Marty temporarily moves in with Rust, written for a prompt wanting roommates and weird domesticity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey and Straw

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this prompt](http://truedetectivekm.livejournal.com/566.html?thread=5686#t5686). I started it last March it's taken this pathetically long to finish. How embarrassing! A thousand apologies to the OP if they're still out there.

Marty deposits his suitcases in Rust's bare upstairs, a pathetic coda to perhaps the most fucked up day on record. Lightheaded fury's given way to solid annoyance because he absolutely does not deserve this. He'd kept things expertly separate: him screwing around was indistinguishable from a Marty who wasn't, which further proves this doesn't need to be the mess it's turned into.

Rust could better argue the simplicity of that, probably. Funny how _he's_ suddenly the one calling moratoriums on what he doesn't want to hear about...

Asshole.

He's still picking through the red metal box downstairs. Its contents quite frankly scare the shit out of Marty, but he puts that aside to put on a front of gratitude. “Thanks again for putting me up an' all. I'm sure it won't be for long.”

“I'm not set up very well for company,” Rust shrugs, while Marty thinks _no shit, you're not even set up for you._ “But you can have the bed, if you want it.”

“Naw, I can't impose on you like that.”

“I'm not sleeping tonight so you might as well.”

“S'okay. I can take care of myself,” he says, and when he heads back out to get all the stuff Maggie (intentionally?) didn't pack for him, Rust's tapping a goddamn bar of C-4 against his nose.

*

The letter warned that the house locks would be changed, but Marty correctly calculates tomorrow would be the earliest it could happen. It's a bit anticlimactic when he lets himself in; nobody's there, and even when he's in the bedroom stuffing a plastic grocery sack with clothes, he doesn't feel much in the way of guilt or a sentimental gut-tug. A deep, defensive anger eclipses those, and he decides to treat this like a game of strategy: Maggie won't expect him to stay away as instructed, and when he does she'll see just how weakened the family unit is without him.

He returns to Rust's with an inflatable mattress and bare minimum bedding. The vinyl smells to high heaven when he unrolls it upstairs, and the box store hairdryer he bought to blow it up with works so hard it starts pushing out burnt air.

“Hey,” Rust interrupts from the doorway, and his eyes sweep the room like maybe he _hasn't_ seen the upstairs before. “Got some stuff you might want.” He hands over a folded towel capped by a smaller one and a plastic cup, and leaves Marty to finish feathering a nest so grim it makes his own arrangement look downright plush.

Later, in the dark, Marty lays in his new floating transience and wonders what Maggie's told the girls.

*

In the morning he wakes up cold and suspended about an inch above the floor. The half-deflated bed tries to swallow him back down when he wrestles his way out, and the plasticky scent reinforces how insane and temporary this all is.

“Morning,” he calls in warning on the way downstairs since there's no door or privacy on where Rust does all of his living, but he's already upright and dressed, staring in a little wafer of a mirror and sucking down whiskey like it's not 7:00 AM.

Marty sidesteps the weird meditation for coffee and finds toaster waffles in the freezer. He also discovers a liquor stash under the kitchen sink like poison Rust's trying to hide from himself. There's a row of Jameson mickeys and a row of fifths, six and four deep.

*

The work normalcy of desks and paper is a slight comfort. Rust's electrified about what's next and stops droning on about nonsensical shit like Bosch and ice skates and works on preparatory things Marty isn't fully aware of. He's happy to stay out of it because he's got his own preoccupation: his game strategy's slipped and the game has morphed into not getting hung up on when calling his own goddamn house. Hell hath no fury, etcetera, and he decides to counter the woman scorned theatrics with calm, non-psycho answering machine messages about administrative family matters. Like Audrey's birthday next month.

He looks across at Rust, who senses it and looks up. “What?”

“Nothing,” Marty says, and decides to make his call from someplace else.

The conference room is empty and private. “Hello to my three beautiful girls,” he says with pasted-on cheer. “Just calling to say hi, and Audrey, if you're there you need to cover your ears for this next part.” He pauses so she can, but before he can launch the soliloquy about renting a bouncy house, there's an abrupt click and dial tone.

This is so fucking far from over. Maggie will be accepting his calls when the mortgage comes due, and when she does he'll point out how she's making it all about her instead of about the four of them. That's almost as bad as what he did, if you think about it.

He tamps down his anger so it won't show, but the whole situation's got him humming like a copper wire; he takes a short detour to the evidence room and leaves early with a bag in his pocket and a lie about “family stuff.”

Rust's filling out his leave of absence paperwork when Marty claps him on the shoulder and feeds into _his_ lie. “Sorry to hear about your dad,” he says, nice and clear so everyone will hear.

“Thanks,” Rust says, and tips his head back down.

*

There's a nice peace about Rust's place with his personal rubber band tension gone. He probably has deeply boring opinions on weed, and Marty calculates that the shower is the best place to light up: it's a tall, enclosed box with a powerful humidity-sucking fan in the ceiling. If all goes as planned, he'll get soundly baked and usher the smell out the vent before Rust gets home.

He strips down to his undershirt and boxer shorts and settles on the tile floor, pleased at how easily the old muscle memory of rolling comes back to him. The last time he bought ZigZag papers was probably in the eighties; buying them today made him feel old and ridiculous, but as far as vices go he could be tapping a lot worse. He lights up; it's a little skunky and the effects take a while to hit him, but soon a warm and welcome relaxation sinks into his bones. Hot air rolls through him like a dry balm...no wonder Rust smokes all the time. People who rail against any kind of smoking might not know how good it feels.

As the glass stall starts to fill, he thinks about Rust, and how he's a pain in the ass but with a strong streak of good. Why else would he bring him folded-up towels, or risk his ownself on a crime that's already been done? His berserker approach to work is admirable but foreign, and Marty thinks about the black bird etched into his arm. It looks like a phoenix, but rising from ashes hardly fits Rust's worldview.

He probably wasn't always like this.

Marty thinks about Rust's dead kid and the questions he will never ask. Like how – mechanically, how does a thing like that even happen? It had to be someone wasn't watching close enough. Was it Rust? Or his old lady? Was it a stranger driving, or, God forbid, one of them? Marty lets his mind feel around the unknowns for a while because it makes his own problems seem small and solvable. His girls are alive and he'll see them again. Not only that, he'll wow them in ways that Maggie won't, like ice cream for dinner and PG-13 movies. He'll be a goddamn weekend Santa Claus.

There's sudden noise, and the door opens with a whoosh of clean air in while the warm, sweet smoke flies out. “What the fuck, Marty?” Rust's a tall column of gray and Marty wants to react but can't, quite. “Feelin' sorry for yourself and stinking up the house. That's real nice.”

Marty makes an attempt to sit up and look credible. “I was actually thinkin' about your sorry ass.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. I started out wallowing in my own shit, but...I kinda can't stop thinking about yours.”

It loosens something in Rust; his shoulders sink a little, but then he almost smiles. “Is hotboxing half-naked some kinda Louisiana thing I don't know about?”

“Considering you don't own a stick of furniture I can't imagine you have a washing machine an' I didn't wanna stink up my clothes.” It's a relief to be on the familiar terrain of shit-dishing. “I'm not used to havin' to take care of my own laundry and stuff. Look, I know I'm a piece of shit, okay? I know.”

Rust nods in dry agreement. “Mind if I join you?”

“'Course not.”

He strips down like Marty has and steps inside. Marty shifts to make room...Rust has to sit on one ankle and stretch his other leg out straight, where it braces against the wall by Marty's side. It's tight, but it works.

Marty passes the joint and Rust wordlessly catches up, taking deep drags that extend all the way down to his feet. It reminds Marty of sauna awkwardness at the gym – should he talk? Should he close his eyes and pretend to be so relaxed he can't? Then he remembers that Rust isn't a stranger at the gym, and that he has something to say. “Look, man...I'm real sorry about the weight on you.”

Rust takes a deep inhale and holds. “Let's don't talk about it.”

Marty nods and gets a little lost in the tile pattern. It's like a maze but not quite, and the further back he sees it, the more it makes sense. It's a perspective he decides to apply to work and his personal life. He wants to tell Rust about it but he's starting to hear things in the quiet, and the tile against his back's starting to bend to fit him. When they're down to a hot nub Rust rolls another, and they pass back and forth for what could be minutes, could be hours.

“You really leavin' tomorrow night?” Marty asks.

“Yep. I got one more thing I have to do tomorrow an' I'll leave after work.” A wave of white smoke hovers at his lips and dips back inside him and Marty wonders if his scars would move like putty if touched.

“It's nice to see you unwind a little. Since normally you're a three foot rubber band stretched out to six."

Rust exhales a fat blast of smoke and wears a tiny smile that's half Satan, half secret. “You're losin' your hair.”

“The fuck I am,” Marty says, but Rust pulls a thin disc of dried hair from the shower drain.

“Ever since you've been here, this bullshit gets hooked on my toes every morning, without fail.” He basks in the triumph a moment – his face turns angelic, and then back to human when he considers the joint. “Where'd you get this?

“Evidence room,” Marty says.

“You shifty-ass motherfucker,” he says, and shifts back to angel with those goddamn curls sprung over his temple. “Ever think you might be clairvoyant?”

“Never. Ever. Ev-er,” Marty says. Rust rewards him with a lazy half-smile and traces a fingertip along the verso of the frosted cattails that decorate the shower door.

This feels good. Like, fuck Maggie, maybe. Him and Rust could do this all the time, light up after work and live on takeout and shit...it could be like the good old days, only now. He swims around in the potential, then strays into the sensory present. “My voice sounds kinda dumb in here,” he says. “Like, extra.”

Rust bends in half and _laughs._ It's like sunlight bouncing off the walls, and it tapers off into little puffs capped by a _hoo_ that's so quintessentially Texas Marty makes a decision about their future. “I think I'm gonna start calling you Lone Star.”

“I think I'm gonna start callin' you Martha.”

“Fuck,” Marty says, and wishes he had a picture of them right now. “I can't believe I'm sayin' this...”

Rust doesn't ask what. He looks like he's wrapped in hot wool, like he could stay there all night.

“...but I kinda like livin' with you.”

“Likewise,” Rust says, and closes his eyes. They sit like that for God knows how long until Rust shifts his weight and winces. “We done in here?”

“I think so.”

“There ain't much to eat but we should look. Your legs asleep, too?”

“What legs?” Marty says, and crawls out behind him on his elbows.

They creak like stove-up old men to the kitchen, where Rust cracks a cap on a new whiskey bottle and Marty opens every single cupboard door. “The fuck's a guy like you doing with a two pound sack of powdered sugar?”

Rust snorts. “Figure it out, detective.”

Marty doesn't care to, but he splits the top open and makes a runny, boozy excuse for frosting, which they eat on toaster waffles till they run out of both.

They end up in Rust's bed, passing the bottle back and forth and not saying much. Marty keeps his feet hanging off the side so they're not technically _in bed_ together, but they are when he wakes up, dehydrated with a headache in the morning.

They're on opposite sides with their backs touching like butterfly halves. Marty stirs first and considers flipping Rust some shit about the lie of I-don't-sleep, but the intimacy of him curled up and quiet is almost too much to look at. It's like a fallen archangel landed in the world's most depressing apartment.

An iron-tight jaw clench makes the headache worse as he starts to make coffee. There's a lot to worry about: the case, shit with Maggie...and ordinarily sharing a bed with a guy, much less _this_ one would be cause for major reflection, but oddly enough it seems to be the least of his problems.

Rust gets dressed without showering and his molasses walk speeds up to an arrhythmic swagger. Marty wouldn't describe him as being in a _good_ mood but he's not in the _usual_ mood, which is interesting. He leans against the counter in a cocky slouch and there's something different about him, though Marty can't tell what.

“What you got on tap today?”

“Don't worry about it.”

“Huh. Well, I might grab a shower while I can,” Marty says. “You're not cleanin' up or anything?”

“Nope.”

“Okay,” Marty says, and while he's washing his hair he guesses that this place was always meant to be a rental because what homeowner would want a shower door like that?

Work is nine hours of them each pretending different things, and it bothers Marty that they don't have a proper goodbye, though not much about any of this so far has been proper. He wants something solid to lean on, and for better or worse, lately that's been Rust.

He gets home and the bag of weed calls a one-drop reggae siren song from a bathroom drawer. Marty gives it a hearty sniff before getting a chilled, superstitious feeling that if he indulges, it will tip things into the unlucky for Rust. He's putting himself out there doing God knows what, and _I'm sitting here, doing nothing while he's in danger, maybe. Someplace uglier than here, maybe._

He could even die. That cartel story is one possibility of many that could mow him down, and Marty considers the physical objects around him and what he'd do with them if it comes to that. Drink the Jameson. Toss the books. Keep his clothes and maybe fit into some of them someday.

He rolls an anemic joint and gets so wound up thinking about Rust that he actually flushes it all.

Would it kill him to call? Check in or something?

This might be like the omnipresent molecule-away-from-panic that good parents feel, only he never has because Maggie's always absorbed it for him.

*

The call that comes the next day at work is a partial disappointment because it's Maggie. “You can come see the girls tonight,” she says. “I have errands to run, and you can have dinner at the house. But the minute I come back you're leaving.”

She's in a staged, manufactured rush when he comes over. “Make sure they eat some salad,” she says, looking for a misplaced shopping list, then spinning around to look for keys.

“We'll manage by ourselves, won't we girls?” He's relaxed, cheerful and doesn't even mind that the dinner proportions are way off because there's only one medium pizza. They used to get two big ones so Marty could graze after dinner and into the next day. It's plain cheese for the girls, and clearly not for him. He's not interested in fighting about it.

Audrey looks at him with great interest. “Where do you live now?”

“I'm staying at Rust's house for a little while. You remember Rust?”

Macie doesn't, and Audrey says, “The man that mommy watched out the window.”

“Hmm,” Marty says. “That musta been the time he mowed our lawn.”

“Uh huh. An' he called us 'little ladies.'”

“Huh. Well, I'm staying at his house for a while.”

“Do you talk all night, like a sleepover?”

“No, I guess we just sleep like normal.”

“Do you have your own room?”

“Sure do. I got a bed on the floor an' everything.”

Macie bounces in her seat. “Can we come over and see it?”

“Um...” Considering the bed is Rust's and the only décor on the walls is murdered women, no. “I'll probably be back here pretty soon, so...”

“Mommy says you won't.”

“She said that?”

“Uh huh.”

“Oh. Well, I guess we'll see about that.”

He cleans up the kitchen better than he maybe ever has and reads them a few books and answers a lot of questions about what's real and what isn't: unicorns, Jesus, princesses, trolls. It's like hypercharged time with them and he loves every minute. Why didn't he do this when he lived here, and do they notice the difference, too?

Maggie gets back and he doesn't hang around, though he suspects she wants him to so they can fight. He is absolutely positively not playing this game with her.

“See ya, girls! Love you!”

Their tandem whine is music to his ears. “Aww!”

“Your mom said I had to leave the minute she got home and we have to do what she says 'cause she's the boss of everything.”

“Even baby Jesus?”

“Everything except him, probably. Now let's get some hugs.” They gather around him and it's kissy-bliss, their little hands and faces more precious than they've ever been.

“Bye, daddy!”

“Okay, little ladies! See y'all next time!”

The abrupt departure infuriates Maggie as predicted and she follows him outside, arms folded tight. “Seriously, Marty?”

“Don't know what you're referring to. I did exactly what you said,” he says, and calmly surveys the lawn. “Lookin' a little shaggy out here. You should get Rust to come take a look at this grass.”

“You miserable sack of shit...”

“Hey, you're the one telling me to do specific things you don't actually want me to do. You can't be throwin' around big picture-type shit with me if that kinda crap makes sense to you.”

He turns and walks away, and it's a delight, this new conscious asshole he's being. Usually it happens by accident and he doesn't even realize it till later. It makes him feel a little bit like Rust.

God, how he misses that man's bullshit. His blackstrap glide in his periphery and the smell of smoke.

*

Rust's back in just under a week, his eyes sleepless and wild. “Only for overnight.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, but I'm outta practice bein' this fucked up. It's worth it, though. Tomorrow I getta see the guy I wanna see, and you're following me. I'll explain it all in the morning.” He shrugs off his leather jacket in a one-shoulder, two-shoulder move that has the languid grace of a top shelf stripper. “What's goin' on here?”

“Not much,” Marty says. “I was thinkin' we should move the bed upstairs.”

Rust stares.

“I was thinkin' you might sleep better up there 'cause less windows means less light.”

“Upstairs smells like a fuckin' beach ball,” Rust says. He pulls a grayed t-shirt up over his head and falls to the mattress like a marionette with its strings cut, then presses the heels of his hands over his eyes. “You been sleeping down here?”

“Yep. Upstairs smells like a fuckin' beach ball.”

“You care if we share?”

“'Course not. It's your house.

Marty gets in next to him and knows the velvet undertow will come so much faster than it did with him gone. They fall asleep like twins fused at the sacrum, a Rorschach inkblot that looks like one thing at first and then melts into something else.

*

In the morning Rust groans with the discontent of an arthritic old man and rolls onto the floor to stretch out. “You know that thing where you sleep so hard you don't move an' all your blood gets stuck in all the wrong places?”

Marty doesn't. “Yeah.”

“I got that.” His shoulder makes a deep, wet pop that sounds painful but pleases him. “Speaking of wrong places, this is what we're gonna do.”

He talks about Ginger and the Iron Crusaders' swill-hole, but Marty only half listens because it sounds like a movie and not like anything they can actually do in real life.

What they do is a fast-forward of terror and progress.

Outside the bar he's sure once again that Rust's either dead or well on his way, but he redeems himself for the mistake of going in after him by being in the exact right place at the exact right time. He isn't sure what's more intoxicating, living an action film or Rust's compliment. Once Ginger's slumped on the floor he reaches both arms around the driver's seat and squeezes Marty's shoulders.

“That was some fancy drivin', Martha.”

They spend the night in a dive motel off I-10, Ginger drugged and closed in the closet while they assume their usual places in bed. “You done good,” Rust says. Marty's silent because he can't fashion a return compliment big enough to fit and he falls asleep watching the glow of Rust smoking one last cigarette. Getting such a peaceful sendoff he should have good if not neutral dreams, but it's nothing but nightmares.

Which are then nothing compared to the next day's pink-brained horror of Reggie Ledoux.

Rust thinks as fast as lightning; he's got bullet spray lodged in the dirt and a bulletproof story in the time it takes Marty to even comprehend what he's done. Even while Rust collects the loose-limbed boy in his arms, he runs the story again and again. “You ran around the back, like a hero,” he says for the fifth time. “You run into any trouble in the re-tell, pretend you're too upset to talk about it and I'll pick it up for you.”

The sirens wail and the children are taken away and Rust gives a compound tour like he's selling a timeshare. He tells the story and Marty agrees with the story, lagging a half a second behind. There are so many layers of unthinkable going on that he dumbly awaits instructions and avoids looking at Reggie's thickening crown of black flies.

 _Walk like Rust, dammit,_ he tells himself. _Be cool, you fucking idiot, or life as you know it is fucking over. Everything you are or will be's gonna get swept up circling this goddamn drain you made._

Back at the station there are informal questions, together then separate. Paper buckets of fried chicken appear and Rust nudges him in the bathroom as they wash their hands. "What'd I tellya. It's all gonna be okay," he says, but all Marty can think of is the dirty texture of that girl's clothes and how he's never touched anything like it.

He doesn't know how Rust's so calm - he's cheerful, almost, and he'd carried the dead one.

*

They start drinking the minute they get home, wide mouth gulping out of tumblers because it's faster than out of the bottle. Only when the warmth creeps into his bones does Marty feel safe saying it. “It happened so fast... it coulda happened another way. It...”

“Don't think about it or you're gonna get stuck in a loop that never ends.”

“Is that about-” _Your kid?_ He can't say that. “Why're you helping me?”

“'Cause I've been where you are right now, only without help. A million times I thought how I shoulda done it different.” He unconsciously rubs a spot on his upper arm and Marty wonders how long he's been doing that and whether anyone noticed.

“Kickback?”

“Uh huh.” He dips his nose to his shoulder; over the day his shirt's changed color from light to dark to something in the middle. “God _damn_ I sweat like a motherfucker,” he says, and it's so stupid Marty almost feels good again, like today he didn't kill a man or feel for a child's pulse where there wasn't one.

Rust takes a long shower and comes out clean, towel tight around his waist and dotted with water. He's uncharacteristically shy. “I imagine you'll wanna sleep downstairs tonight.”

It'll be the fourth time it's happened, but for some reason tonight it weighs ten times as much. Marty can't look at him, either. “Yeah. Imagine I will.”

After some miscellaneous stalling they settle into bed, silent until Rust props himself up on an elbow, like he's about to say something. But then he sinks down with a sigh.

“Thanks for helpin' me out today.” Marty says. Rust answers by reaching over to squeeze his arm and it gives him a rush of pleasure, like a hallway nod of recognition from a high school hero. “Backin' up to when shit was more normal, I thought about you while you were gone. All the time.”

“I thought about you, too,” Rust says. “Kinda missed you, even. It was nice last week. In the bathroom.”

“Yeah.”

“Like it annealed us.”

Marty nods and hopes he'll remember to look that word up later.

“We got any weed left?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“You smoked _all_ of it?”

He seems impressed so Marty doesn't bother correcting him.

“Anyway, I liked it. It was good for us.”

“Yeah,” Marty says. “It was.” He's about to roll over into the position he always wakes up in when Rust reaches over and fits their fingers together. Maybe it's him or maybe it's Rust, but somebody pulls a little closer.

They won't remember who starts the kissing. It starts with a softness that could almost be passed off as an accident later but quickly accelerates into rough and aggressive, almost like wrestling or a contest to prove who's stronger. Rust's dick digs into Marty's thigh as they grab and pull, and the scrape of his stubble's a ticklish sort of pain on Marty's skin.

It's bliss to be kissed by someone so strong. It's scratchy and scary and so intense Marty worries he'll embarrass himself like he's seventeen again, so he pulls back to buy some time. “You sweat like a motherfucker an' you kiss like one, too.”

“Fuck you.” A smile changes the shape of Rust's mouth as he bites at Marty's jawline and squeezes his ass so hard Marty squeals and rears back. There's just enough light to see the outline of wet curls, and he settles on what will buy him all the time in the world and what he owes Rust. He kisses his way down his center, as formulaic and predictable as porn.

Rust pulls his hair at the gentle bite just below his navel. “Hey. You don't have to.”

“Fuck you, I wanna,” he says, and wets his lips and dives in. Leave it to Martin Hart to be stubborn about giving a blow job, and he's determined it'll be a good one because it might be the only one he ever gives. He sucks like he likes it, long and tight and Rust's quiet at first, all light fingertips and sighs, but then he can't anymore. His breathy little sounds are pure victory, and it gets easier to draw him in deeper as Marty gets used to it. It's slick and warm and goddamn if it isn't that bad. It isn't bad at all.

“S'nuff,” Rust says, and pulls back. “Marty, it's enough. You don't have to.” Marty swallows him down even further to prove that he _does_ have to. He _wants_ to. “You fucker,” Rust growls in a faux complaint. “Get ready, then. You asked for it,” he says, and fucks into him with no caution as to whether or not he can take it 'cause he's gonna take it either way.

Marty moans like it's the best thing he's ever had in his mouth. _Mmm,_ he says and does it again, soft but then sharp when Rust pulls his hair and gasps out loud. His whole body stiffens and shakes and the first taste hits the back of Marty's tongue and he won't pull off. He swallows with his mouth as wide open as a cavern while Rust twitches and groans, saying _Yeah, yeah, slow, like that, Marty, yeah, okay stop. Ooo, stop. Yeah._

_Yeah._

Marty holds his jaw still until Rust wilts and then comes up and nestles against him. He feels an odd peace about what just happened and isn't sure why.

“What about you?” Rust asks.

“Oh. Um...” He'd been so focused on doing a good job his own dick's died down by half. “I think I'm good.”

“You sure? I never done it, but I could try.”

“Goddamn if I don't want you to, but...” Marty sighs; it's not that this kind of shit is what's getting him in trouble lately, or that his father's spinning in his grave. “It's like this. When you were gone, I ran outta weed, and I had a superstitious feeling that if I took more, somethin' bad might happen to you. Like a jinx, you know?” Rust nods and gives his arm a gentle squeeze. “After what happened today, it feels like I gotta start saying no to things I want sometimes. Like karma or some shit.”

Rust's warm hand strokes his side. “S'fine.” He leans in and kisses him with great interest, tasting the inside of his mouth and then de-escalating into sweeter, smaller kisses that are like a conversation.

_It was good._

It wasn't all that weird.

_I'm glad you're here._

So am I.

_Thank you, I needed this._

Go to sleep. You must be so tired.

_You have no idea._

Marty rolls over onto his usual side and Rust's nose burrows into the back of his head. He nips the back of his neck a little too hard, and then settles down to sleep with an arm flung around him.

*

In that early morning stretch where sleep is the best, Marty's deep in a dream where his mouth's flooded with thick, slow sweetness, like liquid amber. It's inside him and behind him, warm and alive. They're underground, him and Rust curled around each other like brother fox kits in a den – one like dark sourwood honey and one like straw.

It's like they've slipped into a more practical arm of the animal kingdom with no strings or feelings and he could just about cry at how good it feels. There's nothing but the warmth and weight of Rust beside him. Until Rust stirs and rolls up to his feet.

Marty sheds the animal sensibility and fears the worst. He's probably Rust's bitch now; he half expects to be called Martha from now on, but Rust makes coffee like usual, takes wake-up bottle slugs like usual. He knocks a knob of butter into a hot frying pan and the knife clangs on the metal rim.

"Marty? You awake?"

“Um. Uh huh.”

He's calm and clear, sloshing eggs around and putting the lid on to cook. The burner snaps off. “We'll have breakfast and go over it one more time.” He catches Marty's eyes open, bringing an end to the tired and confused act he'd hoped to hide behind awhile. Somehow, the bastard knows it. "You alright?"

"Yeah."

"Good." He makes a little more kitchen noise, drops a fork and says a quiet _shee-yit_ like he does. "We don't have to talk about last night. I hadn't planned to, anyway."

"Works for me." Marty shifts to sit with his back against the wall, and in a minute Rust's at his elbow, stacking murder books to make a little table to set his coffee on. This can't be a great sloppy gesture because he's probably incapable of making them. It's utilitarian. Last night had been utilitarian, too. It could only mean something if they decided it did, and they'd covered that. Case fucking closed, but Marty's shy and hides his face to enclose a pretend yawn, which Rust immediately divines as bullshit.

“Hey,” he says, stern. “Stop thinking about it.”

“I'm not thinkin' about _it,_ I'm thinkin' about...the human burden of consciousness, I guess.”

“You don't say.” Something tugs at a corner of Rust's mouth. “Thought that was my department.”

“Don't give me that look, it's like, what if we were more like animals than men, without any strings or feelings, an' what a relief that'd be. Isn't that what you're always railing on about?”

"More or less,” Rust says, stepping over Marty's legs and sinking down next to him. “Funny you should bring that up.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I had a dream about us." He looks over with those summer-blue eyes and Marty's skin chills remembering the nip on his neck. “We weren't men anymore. We were, like, bound by somethin' else.” He looks down at his coffee. “Maybe it's all the lies we told, I don't know.”

He sips and flicks a dark curl off his forehead.

Marty wants to ask if maybe they were foxes but doesn't.

They need to go over the story again, but for now it feels best to sit close - really close, and when Marty's cup's almost empty he looks over at Rust.

It's barely there and faint as watercolor, but he's looking down at his own cup and smiling.


End file.
